Simone was late home from work that day, something that could have been prevented had the local council consulted more widely before implementing their scheme to fully pedestrianise the city centre. At the moment her key turned in the lock of her front door, it was 6:36pm and the streetlights, despite the fact it had been getting dark for the last hour, were just beginning to blink on (another result of the local authorities seemingly being in the pocket of environmental pressure groups, she supposed).

At first, she didn’t see the body slumped in the middle of her flat, bleeding onto the carpet in a way which would undoubtedly require the use of cleaning products whose sale was restricted due to their “hazardous” chemical content. She just wanted effective carpet shampoo without having to consider every so-called endangered fish in every scummy pond, she thought as she screamed in horror.

And yet, if only I had a dollar for the number of published literary novels I've opened (but usually not finished) wherein the story came to a grinding halt so that the author could hold forth for three pages on his personal philosophy on culture, politics, or, above all, writing...